In A Thousand Years
by Yombatable
Summary: England and Scotland may have been married for many years, but they didn't really feel it until just then. ScotEng. One-shot.


**So this was originally a request/prompt thingy from BeautifulDesertFoxglove, but honestly I went pretty far off track with this one. IDK I kinda like it though so I don't mind too too much. (Hopefully you won't mind too much either, tell me if you'd prefer I wrote you something a little different, I like that prompt so much I honestly wouldn't mind doing another)**

 **If there are any questions about any of the historical stuff, feel free to contact me, although the events are pretty generic so I doubt you'll need my help.**

 **Enjoy! ;)**

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England had been married to Scotland for many years. Not that that meant anything.

He'd been married to Wales for two hundred years before hand, and in truth it wasn't so much a marriage as it was two brothers sharing a government.

Scotland had always been different though.

He wasn't sure what it was, perhaps it was that Scotland had cared for him. Not often, mind you, and Wales was undeniably nicer, hence why had had been married to him two hundred years more. But there was something, perhaps in the fact that Scotland was his _big_ brother, as opposed to Wales who was younger than him by an amount that no one was quite sure of, that changed things... somehow.

There had been a time, and he remembered it well, that Scotland had cared for him. When England wasn't called England, Scotland wasn't called Scotland, they were both children, and their mother danced with them through the open fields of Britannia.

He remembered a time when Scotland had lifted him on his shoulders and helped him reach for the fruit neither of them would be able to alone.

He remembered a time when he had taken him north and they had played with the unicorns and swam with his 'Nessie', and England had even convinced him to let him take a small mint-green rabbit-like fae home with him.

He remembered a time when he had taken him out into a field and given him a bow he'd made himself, just for England's tiny hands, and taught him how to shoot a hat off of a gnome's head. He had given him a sword and taught him how to destroy a sack of sand, because _you're too wee to take on people yet Sassenach._ They had wrestled and he had let England win, and England had thought in all his childlike naivety that he had won off of his own back.

England still remembered the first time Scotland hadn't let him win. Britannia was gone, and suddenly Scotland didn't seem like Scotland anymore as he stood above his brother, his face painted and his eyes wild, and England couldn't find it in himself to see the same person. No matter how much he wished for his loving brother back though, he also found that he couldn't see himself ever finding that person again.

The first years of their marriage had been... tough. Over the years they had developed a misplaced hatred for each other that couldn't be fixed with just a piece of paper and a shared capital. Wales, bless his heart had tried at first to stop them, but even the most docile of the brothers can only take so much, and eventually he had given up on them as their bosses had.

England found his salvation at sea. Scotland had never liked boats, he got sea-sick, so he never followed, and so England found himself sailing even more since their marriage than he had before. He would spend as much time away from home as possible, hoping his country wouldn't fall apart while he visited his colonies, still, he never expected his colonies to fall apart while he was visiting his home.

He remembered the night that he'd lost America. He'd drunk himself into a stupor, cried himself to dehydration, and lost himself somewhere along the way.

He didn't remember when Scotland had arrived. All he remembered is that he had held him. Held him like he used to when he'd fallen and hurt himself when he was a child, because really, what was the difference now? He'd brought this on himself. He should have seen it coming. Just like he should have seen that root when he was a child.

He remembered how Scotland had rocked him, a gentle hand in his hair until he had stopped sobbing. He had whispered soothing words in a language England had forgotten they had both once spoken. Eventually England had fallen asleep that way.

When he woke up, Scotland was gone, and he was in his bed... no, not his, Scotland's, a goblet England recognized as Scotland's beside the bed, filled with clearer water than he'd seen since the New World, and a short note telling him to _drink up Sassenach,_ and, completely overwhelmed, he had started to cry again.

But not because America was gone, in that moment he forgot about that entirely, because Scotland still cared. His brother still loved him like he did when he was a child, and he'd been so sure there was not even a small part of him that could still love his brother, but right then and there he felt it spark back to life, that ember of love lit his whole being on fire. And without drinking from the goblet, or acknowledging the pounding in his head, he ran from the room, to where he knew his brother would be, and when he got there he wrapped him so tightly in his arms that Scotland had to request air.

"What's gotten into you?" he asked, his voice seemingly torn between laughter and worry.

"You still- still love me!" England sobbed into his shoulder.

Scotland froze for a moment, and England was sure he'd said something wrong, but then he felt the older man hiccup out a sob of his own. He hugged England back then, both of them holding on for dear life, almost a thousand years of hatred-sealed walls coming crashing down around them.

"Of course I still care, I never stopped."

And that was enough for both of them.

Things became easier after that. Their marriage from hell became more like a tentative friendship in purgatory, and they got along better... for the most part.

England wasn't sure when his love turned from something you give to a brother to something else entirely, but it seemed to be around the time Ireland came kicking and screaming into the Union, bringing their newly born sister with him. They fought much the same way Scotland and he had fought, but this time it was Scotland that dragged them by their ears out the back of England's house and told them to sort themselves the fuck out.

It wasn't until The Great War that they shared a kiss.

Or, should it be said, after The Great War.

It was 1918, bitter cold, and it was a Monday. It was the best Monday England had had in a long time. Even despite the ache in his bones, and the sting in his lungs, and the almost constant blur to his vision that he was sure would not be fixed by any amount of eyeglass.

He remembered feeling Scotland coming up behind him before he had seen him, and he held out a cigarette to him silently, which Scotland took without a word. They stood for a while, silently smoking, looking out on a London which was high on the news of the end of the war, until Scotland took England's free hand in his own, playing with the bruised fingers as he leaned against the balcony railing.

"You look like shit," he finally said, making England laugh out a breath of smoke.

"Really?" he asked, still looking out over his capital, "Because I feel better than I have in four years."

Scotland didn't say anything, and after a short while England's curiosity got the better of him and he turned to look at him. The look he was greeted with made his already over-excited heart jitter even worse, and he found himself curling his fingers into Scotland's tightly, part of him hoping that Scotland would take that as a sign.

Scotland _had_ to take it as a sign otherwise they would never get anywhere. England never had been good at things like this after all.

Scotland leaned up from the balcony, pressing their lips together as lightly as a feather, "Congratulations," he said, and then he walked away.

England didn't follow, nor did he ask him to come back. He just let out a sigh and turned back to his jittering capital, noticing idly that his cigarette had fallen from his fingers.

England hadn't been surprised when Ireland had wanted to leave the Union a few years later. He hadn't particularly wanted to be a part of it anyway, and unlike Scotland, he and England had never had a moment of _you still love me_. The truth of the matter was that it was hard to do so when you'd had little to do with each other during your childhood.

He'd tried to take Northern Ireland with him, of course. His beautiful baby sister had to go with him. But Northern Ireland had grown since she had become part of the Union, at almost fifteen physically, she could hardly be called a baby anymore, and she had wanted to stay with the Union. Ireland, of course, had let her go, but England couldn't help but think that there was something in his eyes... something familiar... when the last of his bags were packed and his room was empty but a bed.

It was the night that he walked past Ireland's old room, weeping coming from within, and he peered through the gap in the door only to see Scotland soothing a sobbing North in a painfully familiar way, that he realized he was in love with him.

It wasn't until the Second Great War that they fell into bed together.

He remembered gritting his teeth against the pain, digging his nails into Scotland's skin as he rubbed soothing circles into his back, dutifully ignoring his own pain until England's had passed. It would pass. It always did.

"Shh," he cooed softly, "Shh, Sassenach."

The pet name jolted his heart, distracting him from the pain for just a moment until another bomb hit and he gritted out a low whine, squeezing his eyes shut to keep tears from falling.

He'd had worse. It'd be okay. He could do this. Just breathe.

And then he felt a shelter be hit, two dozen lives blinking out of existence and he let out a cry of pain as if he were the one to be hit dead on.

He had to be strong, but-

But it hurt! It _hurt_! It **_hurt_**!

When it finally passed he let his fingers relax, then his arms, and then his torso, and then the rest of him, slumping against Scotland with a shuddering and unsteady breath. Scotland breathed out a silent sigh of relief, his fingers curling into England's hair soothingly still, "It's over. It'll be okay. We'll beat that German shithead into the ground and then you'll never have to feel this again. We'll be able to forget this even happened."

At that England sucked in a long breath, his hands weakly reaching up and over Scotland's chest, pushing him away just far enough so he could look into his eyes. They were hard, with anger and determination behind them, but as soon as England touched his cheek he let out a soft breath and they softened, any other emotion replaced with something else entirely. An emotion neither of them were willing to express to the other. Not yet.

"Make me forget now," England said, leaning up on his knees so that he was a little taller than the Scot, and pushing their faces close enough that their noses brushed.

And Scotland's face twisted into one of pain before he leaned forward and caught England's lips in a kiss. Searing and powerful, and everything that they hadn't said over the last few years.

They made love that night, in England's bomb shelter, and they didn't let go of each other until they were found the next morning by England's secretary.

Still, they didn't truly act on their feelings until the mid-fifties.

He remembered how terrified he had been of this. The moment when he would no longer be powerful. When he'd become a shadow of his former self, someone who that very England would laugh at.

He was a joke. That's what he was.

He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be an empire.

Somewhere in the midst of his wallowing, a hand rested on his shoulder, squeezing gently, and rather suddenly making England realize just how tense he was. He tried then to relax, but he just couldn't and he let out a frustrated growl at his own uselessness, leaning heavily forward on his desk and curled his fingers tightly into his hair.

"How're you doing?"

England growled once again, "How does it _look_ like I'm doing, Scotland?"

Scotland sighed, tilting his head as if to concede England's point. He pulled England's hands out of his hair, rubbing his thumbs over the palms, "If it means anything, you're still-" he hesitated, frowning deeply and deliberately not meeting England's eyes when he turned to him curiously, " _Important_ , to- to me, that is."

England looked him over for a moment, his mind taking its sweet time catching up with what he was saying, but eventually he seemed to decide on a reaction, and that was _finally_ kissing Scotland for himself.

It wasn't like their first kiss, nor was it like their second. It wasn't too fleeting, nor was it too hot. It was a happy medium that made both of their hearts flutter in a way they would never admit to them doing. Not now at least.

When the kiss broke, England pressed his forehead against Scotland's, biting his tingling lip and refusing to open his eyes. It took until Scotland chuckled slightly for him to open them and look into the other man's eyes. He rather suddenly decided that he never wanted to stop looking into those eyes.

"England?"

His voice was so uncharacteristically vulnerable that England had to do a double take, his hands coming up around Scotland's neck and stroking at the shaggy hair at the base, "Hm?"

Scotland sighed, "Do you-" he scowled at nothing but himself, "Do you still love me?"

England smiled, "How unfair of you to ask me first."

Scotland laughed nervously, "I'm a coward nowadays."

England bit his lip in thought for a moment before he finally answered, "I strongly believe so, yes," England said, both of them ignoring how a blush rose on his cheeks, "Do you still love me, Scotland?"

Scotland nodded minutely, "I do."

Scotland let England take the lead that night, when they'd found themselves alone, naked in England's bedroom. And it wasn't until the next morning that England realized that Scotland had done it to comfort him, to let him feel like he still had control over something, just for a night. And it was that moment that England was sure he'd never love anyone else. Not like this.

They loved like teenagers after that. Caught up in crazes and music and life and each other. They loved blazingly bright, telling the world to go fuck themselves as they fucked each other. Because they didn't care about anything but being wrapped up in the other, their problems could wait until they burned themselves out.

It was the end of the sixties when they finally did, after a ten year blaze, they started to cool down. And by the eighties their flame was just a constant flicker.

They both somehow decided they liked this better though. A flame was hard to maintain, a flicker was just constant warmth. A constant warmth that made either one smile when they thought about the other. A warmth that didn't make their hearts flutter, but made them minutely glow. A warmth that held them close when they watched each other go about their days, different people, living different lives, somehow connected by that same constant warmth.

Their kisses turned from "I want you" to "I have you".

And neither of them could deny that the other had them completely, no matter how much the other had or hadn't changed.

It was at the turn of the millennia, as the two of them were watching the fireworks that signalled the beginning of the year two thousand, that England confessed this to Scotland.

"Y'know, Scotland," he said, leaning against him as the two of them watched from a window in Westminster, their fingers laced together lazily, just simply to be touching rather than to make sure the other doesn't leave.

Scotland hummed out a question, his eyes fixed on the coloured explosions that littered London's sky.

"You're still a total prat, just like you were a thousand years ago."

Scotland snorted, raising an amused eyebrow at him, "Thank you, although I'd like to think I've improved a little bit."

England shrugged, "Oh, you're infinitely better than you were a thousand years ago, you're still a prat though."

Scotland ruffled his hair, making England chuckle and swat his hand away, "Well I could say the same about you."

England hummed, leaning his head back on Scotland's shoulder, "Do you think we'll still be here, like this, in a thousand years time?"

Scotland paused to think about that for a moment, "I don't think we'll be like this, I think we'll be different by then. But I think we'll still be here, somehow, together."

England smiled, "Well you have me for as long as you want me."

Scotland returned the smile, and both of them felt that warmth once again, that heaviness and lightness at the same time that evened out into a pleasant medium.

England and Scotland may have been married for many years, but they didn't really feel it until just then, the comfort and security that marriage offered them, stretching out for as long as their flicker kept them warm.

"Good," Scotland said, leaning down to kiss him as a fresh wave of the fireworks exploded behind them, "Because you have me too."


End file.
